


Trust, and a little courage

by thewildwilds



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa 3: The End of 希望ヶ峰学園 | The End of Kibougamine Gakuen | End of Hope's Peak High School, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Enthusiastic Consent, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Mutual Masturbation, Pregnancy, Pregnant Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:34:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28003977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewildwilds/pseuds/thewildwilds
Summary: Perhaps what she feels is an aberration. But no matter how many times she plays it over in her head, at every different angle, she cannot conclude her feelings are wrong.(Peko Kuzuryuu wants. Fuyuhiko Kuzuryuu does his best to provide.)
Relationships: Kuzuryu Fuyuhiko/Pekoyama Peko
Comments: 8
Kudos: 79





	Trust, and a little courage

**Author's Note:**

> This story touches upon the subject of sex during pregnancy as it is culturally viewed in Japan. Please refer to the end notes for context.

When they had agreed to finally try for a baby together, Peko Kuzuryuu was certain she would have everything under control.

They had prepared months in advance, after-all. Both of them had agreed they’d only take this step when they were as ready as they’d allow themselves to be, and while they knew it would never be at 100%, their certainty had been high enough. They had gathered all sorts of advice, from many different sources—close family friends all the way down to the kind neighborhood grandmother working at the traditional sweets shop down the street—and that’s to say nothing about all the literature they had collected too. The pregnancy books are detailed and comprehensive, the medical pamphlets are informative, and the maternity handbook is easy to follow. The plans are structured. Simple.

As Peko eventually learns, it is one thing to read about what is to come. It is another to actually experience it.

All the changes, physical and otherwise, had been expected, in certainly obvious ways. Her mistake may have been assuming she’d be completely fine with them all. (And she _is._ She certainly never would’ve agreed to a baby without knowing.) Her penchant towards resilience, still present, even after all these years, had convinced her so. She should’ve known better than to assume that such a drastic change wouldn’t come without its own hurdles.

Sometimes she doesn’t recognize herself when she looks in the mirror. This far into the pregnancy, her belly has swelled well beneath her clothes. She isn’t losing her figure. She’s most certainly _gaining_ one. Either way, loss or gain, it’s been a sharp change. She hasn’t felt this way since her growth spurt at thirteen, when she had become awkward and tall and gangly, except instead of the growing pains of adolescence, now she has to contend with swollen ankles and tender breasts and a rapidly ballooning belly.

Fuyuhiko is careful. He’s been that way since she first started showing physical signs of pregnancy. He’s tentative, cautious, when he kisses her, or holds her. He pulls away too quick for it to be anything but chaste, but every time, her body—different as it is—thrums with an awareness of _him_.

It’s embarrassing to realize she can still feel crippling amounts of desire in the middle of episodes of crankiness and nausea. Peko would consider herself a practical woman, and even she can admit to the absurdity of her own conflicting feelings. The hormonal changes are certainly a factor, but plenty of it comes from simply missing his touch, the way he would map out her body, his fingertips and his mouth and his tongue leaving scorching paths upon her flesh like a branding iron.

(Well. There goes her imagination again.)

In all their planning, they had never discussed _intimacy_ during the process. Other matters, like scheduling doctor visits, and adjusting dietary restrictions, had taken precedence. Fuyuhiko has been with her every step of the way, and every opportunity to just _ask_ had withered on her tongue before she even had the chance to get the words out.

It’s not entirely without hope. She’s seen the way he looks at her. He thinks she doesn’t notice, but she can see it in his eye, in the morning when she’s too tired to bother with more than a loose yukata, or when she’s fresh from the bath and her towel won’t wrap all the way around her baby bump.

He hasn’t tried initiating anything, though. It’s unsurprising; he always, always treats her body with respect, and she’ll forever feel grateful for it.

But she wants _more._

After everything he’s done to support her—more than a man normally does during pregnancy—the heavy weight of guilt and shame hang in her heart, even while the desire refuses to subside. It’s a selfish desire. It’s been a long time since she considered any of her desires as selfish, but after the long laborious months so far, she’s also willing to forgive herself.

Perhaps intimacy during pregnancy just isn’t what couples normally do. Perhaps what she feels is an aberration. But no matter how many times she plays it over in her head, at every different angle, she cannot conclude her feelings are _wrong_. She’s a woman who wants something, and what she wants is more than normal: it’s human.

And when she thinks back to the glimpses she’s caught of him, staring at her from the corner of her eye, a spark of hope ignites in her chest.

Perhaps all he needs is a little encouragement.

On a quiet day, when they’re working from home, free of any immediate obligations, she gets to preparation. She takes out the futon from the closet and lays it out, long before they’ll be going to bed. She dresses down in a light yukata, wrapped loose over her belly, and nothing else. The weather is warm today, slightly breezy. She opens the door to the inner garden just a sliver so there will be enough ventilation through the room.

(If it happens. If.)

When she’s ready, she gathers her courage.

“Fuyuhiko?” she calls.

His answer is distant: “Yeah, Peko?”

“Would you come into the bedroom, please?”

She tracks his footsteps through the house: out the office and down the hall. She knows the distance between the two rooms, knows just how long it would take to get from there to here, but in the moment, it feels like it stretches for miles and hours. She paces around the futon for two full rotations before she hears her husband shuffling just outside the room.

He slides the door open. “What’s up?”

She turns, and the collar on one side of her yukata droops off her shoulder. He freezes, mouth half-formed around some unspoken question. His eyes bug, and he whips back around in a panic, his shoulder banging against the edge of the door in his haste.

“Sorry! I-I didn’t know you were… um…” He doesn’t finish, because he doesn’t know what she was doing. He shoves his hands in his pockets, because he doesn’t know what else to do with them.

It’s endearing, in a way, but she wishes he would choose a better time for the theatrics. He frets too much for his own good, sometimes. They’ve been married for _years;_ he’s well-acquainted with the way she looks undressed.

She tries to push her resolve forward. She mustn’t waver. She’s not running away, and if there’s any chance this is what he wants, she won’t let him run away either. She slips the yukata the rest of the way off her shoulders, until it pools at her feet, and she is standing bare.

“Fuyuhiko.”

He turns. It’s hesitant. When he sees her standing there in her entirety, he flinches and turns his face away.

“Fuyuhiko, look at me, please.”

He hesitates again, and tilts his head back in her direction. He’s fighting hard to keep his focus on her face and nowhere else. His cheeks are distinctly pink.

_(She wants to kiss him right now. She wants his heat against hers. She wants to pin him down against the futon until he sees nothing but her, feels nothing but her, tastes nothing but her—)_

She steps closer. “I’ve seen the way you look at me,” she says.

He doesn’t ask what she means. He doesn’t deny it either. He winces, and his face reddens, right at the top of his cheeks. “Sorry. I… I didn’t mean to—”

She is struck first by the sudden cold wash of shame. Of her shape; this strange, new amalgamation of proportions. It was her choice to stand before him in her entirety, but now she wonders if he sees her as alien as she feels sometimes.

She has to ask. She hopes her voice doesn’t waver when she says, “Is it because I look like this now?”

He startles, as though he’d been distracted and now he’s suddenly tuning into the conversation. “… Huh?”

His surprise surprises her too. In what way, she’s unsure. The flutter of her heartbeat has the baby kicking restlessly, knocking a sharp breath out of her. She cups both hands under the bottom curve of her belly.

“I’ve changed,” she says. “I know that’s obvious. I suppose I hadn’t hoped you’d still find me attractive this way. It hadn’t crossed my mind, at least. I thought I could just endure this for a few months until the baby was born. And it was fine, at first, but… my feelings for you haven’t changed. And you look at me the same way, but you won’t touch me. And I know it must be an adjustment, to see me so different, and perhaps… not so flattering, or—“

“Woah, woah, woah,” he cuts in. Only when he stops her does she realize she’s nearly out of breath just from talking. She sucks in a deep breath and tries to swallow down the lump of her heart thoroughly lodged in her throat.

His brows furrow, his face schooled into an expression somewhere between outrage and befuddlement. “I dunno what you’re thinking, but let’s get one thing straight: It’s not just ‘this way.’ I want you _all_ ways. No matter what.”

She wants to believe him. Her heart palpitates. It’s almost comical how something so simple can make her heart do somersaults, as though she were still a schoolgirl learning how to accept praise. “Then why else would you keep your distance?”

“It’s not because I don’t want you…” He tacks on quietly: “… That’s the whole problem.”

“It’s a problem to want me?”

“What? No! No—” When she continues to stare at him in equal measures of confusion, his shoulders sag. “Shit,” he mutters under his breath. “Fuck. I’m an asshole. Sorry, I… I didn’t mean it that way. Peko, I…” He takes a stuttered step forward, closing the distance further to gather her hands in his. “You’re _everything._ You’re giving me everything. What you’re going through right now… I’m just _so_ grateful. You know that… right?”

She looks down at where their hands are linked. He’s drawing reassuring circles over her knuckles with his thumb. She doesn’t think he even knows he’s doing it, and it helps ease some of the tension clutching at her heart.

She thinks back to all the times he’s let her tiredly lean against his shoulder while the baby kicks up a fuss. Accompanying her to every doctor’s appointment even during their busiest work days. Fluffing up all the pillows on the couch so she could have a mid-afternoon lie, and massaging her aching, swollen feet to help her relax.

“Yes,” she says, and she believes it. “… I suppose I’ve just been looking for ways to see if that’s still true.” She will freely admit to a weak heart; she should know by now, his language of love takes on many forms. She puffs out an embarrassed laugh. “I know it’s silly, but, when we’re close like this… it makes me feel beautiful.”

“You _are_ beautiful,” he stresses.

There’s something he’s left unspoken there. Something he’s afraid to say. There’s a little crease between his eyebrows that hasn’t gone away since he first saw her in this room.

She reaches out and smooths it down with her thumb. “Tell me what’s wrong?”

“Peko, it’s… I might…” he closes his eyes, hisses out between gritted teeth, “… hurt you. The both of you. I don’t trust myself.”

“But why would you...?”

“I’m just… worried. About what to do. About what I… _could_ do. Like, what if I… _move_ wrong? I could mess something up, and there could be… _complications_ or something, and I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t know what to do. And if it ends up being something I can’t undo…” He presses his fingertips against his mouth, as though he thinks just saying the words might invoke the possibility into existence. “It’s our baby, Peko. _Ours.”_

It never fails to surprise her, the way his heart bleeds with vulnerability when he lets it. He’s wanted to be a father to a family for so long, and they already have a late start compared to most first-time parents. This window of time won’t be around forever. Threatening that chance would be the last thing he’d ever want.

But if that’s all he’s worried about, then she’s already prepared.

She kisses his temple, stays pressed close when she says, “I’ve asked the doctor already. He said the baby will be fine.”

His gaze snaps back to her, eyebrows up to his hairline. “You— Wait. Peko, you—? … Seriously?”

It’s her turn to go red. (Even the doctor had looked mildly surprised when she had asked about the details; out of sheer desperation had she powered through the embarrassment to get what she needed, mortifying as it was.) “The books didn’t say much about it, so I wanted to be sure we could do this properly. It should be safe for us to do this, as long as we’re gentle.” She catches her breath, tries to smile in a manner she hopes is reassuring. “That’s all right, then… right?”

He’s watching her with a fond, incredulous look. She hopes it’s for more than just breaking some societal taboo, but since when have they ever done what society expects of them?

“We can use protection, to be clean. I can lead, if you’re worried.”

It seems that way. His gaze sweeps over her, from head to toe and back again. She sees it again, that familiar spark in his eye that must reflect her own.

“Is that what you want?” he asks.

“I want this for both of us,” she says, and it’s the truth. That’s all it is. “Will you do this with me?”

He doesn’t say anything. He takes a breath, and hooks both arms around her waist, pulling her closer.

That answers the question enough.

She helps him out of his clothes, without shame or hesitation. She only fumbles when she’s lifting the loosened knot of his tie over his head, and it gets caught under his nose. He grunts, more dramatically than necessary, but it gets him to laugh. It makes her smile too. Consumed with affection for him, Peko closes the gap so she can feel that smile against her lips, and he can feel hers.

“I love you,” he says when she helps him push his shirt off his shoulders. The raw tenderness of it strikes her more powerfully than she expects. Somehow it feels too small of an act to just say it in return. What she feels for him bubbles in her chest, expands to the point where she thinks it might burst out of her, so she _must_ kiss him.

He opens willingly beneath her, his tongue curling along the length of hers. He remains slow and careful, like he’s rediscovering all the ways to touch her. His palm drags carefully up her side, over the dip in her waist, the heel of his hand barely grazing the curve of her protruding belly.

He breaks away suddenly. His breathing is uneven. His face is flushed.

“Do you suppose that the, uh. C-Can the baby hear us?” he murmurs.

In truth, she hadn’t thought to ask. The baby’s hearing is fully formed by now, so in theory she could. Peko chooses her words carefully. “I suppose so. But I don’t think she can understand what we’re doing.”

“Oh.” He swallows. “Because I don’t want her first memory of us to scar her for life. Y-Y’know? I mean—”

Before he can spiral down another winding, ranting path, she catches his face with a soft hand against his cheek. “It’s all right. I don’t think we will.”

He nods. And then something changes in his gaze that sends a thrill down her spine. Surging forward, he kisses her this time, with a sudden desperation that catches her by surprise. His tongue probes against hers and he drinks her in, in-between fumbling to get the rest of the way out of his clothes, and any questions about how much he wants this fall back into the recesses of her mind.

They can’t kiss the way they used to, with the baby bump in the way; it strains her neck muscles if she bends for too long, so she takes his hand and leads him over to the awaiting futon.

He lies back on the comforter while she helps him with the condom and climbs on top. This is one of the positions the doctor had recommended, one that would be comfortable for the both of them without putting any pressure on her belly. They’ve done this before, just without the pregnancy. The balance is different, that’s all. She has to shift her weight further back to accommodate the bump in the front, and Fuyuhiko draws his knees up to help brace against her back. She smiles, brings one of his hands to her lips and kisses his knuckles; he’s so considerate.

His good eye flickers to her belly. “Are you sure that— I-I don’t wanna hurt you, or—”

She caresses her hand down his chest soothingly. “It’s fine. It’s safe. The baby’s safe.”

He nods, hesitant, but the concern in his brow unfurls. He holds her, steady at the hips.

Looking down at Fuyuhiko, it feels so much like their first time together, with the light touches and slow build. But they’ve come a long way since then; she knows there’s no need for trepidation now. Just a little bit of encouragement before she rises up and slides him home.

He exhales shakily when she’s fully seated upon him. Just like that, all the effort already feels worth it, just to feel that intoxicating pressure within her. The fullness nearly knocks the breath out of her, but she has to keep breathing. She has to.

It feels good, but it’s also strange. There’s a nagging feeling in the back of her head. She chalks it up to the unfamiliarity, but it’s hard to stay focused on that, and _not_ the feelings that _are_ familiar and have been shelved for too long. It’s been _months_ since he’s touched her in this way, her body responds like a flower stretching for water after a drought. She rises up, and drives back down, and the wet slide of him within her sends such a thrill up her spine that it makes her momentarily forget all about the pent-up frustration, the longing.

She has to brace her hands back against his thighs to keep balance. It’s more effort than usual to find a rhythm, but she manages, with a patience and steadiness that belies her need. She chases the fluttery feeling building in the pit of her belly, concentrated where they’re joined. Heat spreads from her gut to all of her extremities, right down to her fingertips. It’s exhilarating. It’s intoxicating. It’s…

The strange, nagging feeling doesn’t go away. Partway through, she realizes he hasn’t moved. Normally he’s reverent with his touches, but his hands have stayed glued to her hips. She looks down and sees he’s screwed his eyes shut.

Her blood turns to ice in her veins.

It’s not just the unfamiliarity. He’s uncomfortable.

She stops.

“Fuyuhiko.”

He opens his good eye.

“Are you all right?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Do you want to stop?”

He hesitates. His fingers briefly tighten around her hips, and she fears he might try and lie to her.

After a painful silence, he murmurs, “Yeah, can we take a break for a bit?”

She rises off of him. They readjust until they’re sitting side-by-side.

Cold air rushes in from the gap between them. She remembers she kept the windows open a crack, for ventilation. The breeze turns into a draft, but she’s not sure if the reasons why she’s shivering are entirely weather-related.

“I still want you,” he says in a rush. “I do. It’s not about that, okay? It’s— I just— I keep thinking about the baby. About… accidentally hurting her, or you, or—”

She curls her arms around the swell of her belly. “But the doctor said it’s safe.”

“I know. And— And I believe you when you say it’s safe. It’s just,” he lets out a great big whoosh of air, “hard to get my brain to cooperate right away, y’know?”

Rewiring thoughts. The challenge of pushing back worry and anxiety against all logical reasoning.

She understands. Probably better than he realizes.

She would be lying if she said she wasn’t disappointed. It’s not his fault. He’s following his heart, the same way she follows hers. It would be unfair of her to expect him to change his frame of mind so quickly. It is what it is, and she feels what she feels.

“It’s all right,” she says, and kisses him on the cheek, because it _is_ all right.

They’re going to be parents soon. They need to reevaluate their priorities, shift around what’s truly important and what can wait. The sentiment was not wrong—perhaps she had only been too forthright with the attempt—but at the end of the day, the baby will always come first.

It had been worth a try, at least.

She starts to pull away, but he catches her by the waist.

“Here. Why don’t we try, um.” He suddenly drags her closer, until she’s pressed flush against his side. One of her hands comes up automatically to brace against his chest. He urges her to part her legs, and then he slithers his free hand over her belly, and down in-between.

She gasps. He probes at her with two fingers, testing her response, and then presses in deep, in one easy slide. Her entire body jolts to attention and she can’t keep it in—she moans, embarrassingly loud.

It’s like lightning; every nerve in her body goes alight, her toes curling, the fine hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. She involuntarily clenches her hand, raking her fingernails down his chest, and she might leave marks on him by the end of this, but if it bothers him, he doesn’t flinch away.

He foregoes the preamble. It’s almost uncharacteristic, but it’s fine; she’s still wound up from their first attempt. He’s gentle still, but stalwart, setting a pace that has her eagerly rocking her hips against his hand, and he responds in earnest. This is just fine. This is _better_ than fine.

It feels like she’s drowning in him, with his chest rumbling beneath her ear, his other arm warm and secure around her waist, his musky scent filling her nose. She can feel the flex of his bicep every time he alternates the rhythm of his fingers and it makes her shudder.

“Shit, Peko,” he hisses. “You’re… _really wet.”_

There’s no room to be embarrassed. She thinks she’d do just about anything to make sure he doesn’t stop, doesn’t do anything to threaten the quick slide of his fingers, or the clever twist of his wrist.

“Fuyuhiko,” she pants against his collarbone.

He murmurs something loving and warm against her temple. He’s breathing just as hard as she is, the rabbit-fast rhythm of his heartbeat pattering right below her cheek. From this angle, she can see how he’s still hard, right within reach.

“Can… Can I touch you?” she manages, and his litany of affirmation (“Yeah. Yes. _Yes,_ please, God yes.”) has her dizzy with need. She unclenches the hand braced against his chest and reaches for him, and there’s a brief, clumsy moment when her arm collides with his—too eager, too hasty—but then she grips him with a firm hand, and he makes a quick, desperate noise that could rival her own.

She loves touching him in this way. He’s so responsive, so open and eager to her touch. His hips buck up to match her strokes, with the frantic energy that had been absent in their first attempt. She thinks he might have missed this as much as she had, and he had only let anxiety and uncertainty get in the way.

She has a head start on him. She doesn’t think she can last much longer, not when his thumb seeks out the sensitive bundle of nerves between her thighs. It’s just a brush at first that swiftly turns into tight, concentrated circles. Her breath hisses between her teeth when he sinks in another digit, and she’s so full, so thoroughly encapsulated by him, it feels like she could burst. He’s left no more spaces to fill, and she wants to let it all out.

He’s looking at her, watching her. He always likes to watch her while they make love. His chin is at just the right angle. They kiss, deep and searing, and she pours every ounce of affection and gratefulness she can muster into it. When they pull apart to catch their breaths, he doesn’t stop, trailing wet kisses down her chin, along her cheek, the corner of her mouth.

“God, you’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he murmurs, his breath hot upon her skin. Distantly, she remembers opening the windows a crack. It turns out it doesn’t matter. The air burns around them to the point that she thinks they might suffocate, but they won’t. He’s breathing life into her, reigniting her from the inside out.

She’s careening fast towards the edge. She wants to help him further along, to match where she is, but every time she tries, he seems to double down on his efforts, like the only way he knows how to respond to pleasure is to give it right back tenfold. He takes her apart like he’s been born to do it. She could _sob_ with relief, but she knows he will not stop until he can carry over the edge.

“Fuyuhiko, I— I’m—“

“Yeah, I got you,” he pants against her mouth, swallowing the desperate noises she makes against his. “Keep going, baby. Keep going. I got you.”

He pushes in deep and curls his fingers, rubs right up against that spot inside her that triggers a ripple of pleasure across the planes of her body, electrifies each and every one of her nerves, and she can no longer hold it in. She tries to keep up the rhythm of her hand, she really does, but her grip on her own self-control is tenuous at best, slipping bit-by-bit.

She lets herself go. It feels less like falling apart and more like skyrocketing towards new heights, erupting like fireworks in the middle of the day. He doesn’t stop, even when she’s carried up and away. He blends in seamlessly with the rhythm, knows the exact ebb and flow of each wave as her body spasms and shudders. Whatever sound she makes reaches a crescendo before her voice gives out entirely.

Her vision is blurry. Her mind is hazy. Her body buzzes with the last lingering vestiges of full-bodied pleasure.

She wants him to feel what she feels. Before she even has a full hold of her senses, her hand starts moving again, like it has a mind of its own. She kisses where she can reach, mouths along his neck and shoulder with what little energy she has left. He keeps her pressed close as he expels panting breaths against her temple, and from this angle, she can admire all the ways he responds to her touch: the flush of color in his cheeks, the crinkle of his brow, the thin film of sweat down his chest, shimmering in the midday sunlight. His mouth goes slack around her name—one long chanting chorus of _“Peko, Peko, Peko.”_ His breath stutters, his muscles tense, and finally, _finally,_ he releases, hot and runny in her hand. It’s _wonderful._ He’s pressed so close she can feel every minute tremor as he shudders and trembles in a long line down her body, until he’s good and spent.

They collapse onto the futon together, side-by-side. The baby is kicking like a rabbit, almost certainly in response to the change in her heart rate. It’s a bit of discomfort, but Peko is too sapped to care.

Fuyuhiko places a gentle hand on her belly.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he laughs breathlessly, not to her, but to the baby. “I really, really hope you don’t remember any of this.”

Peko caresses a hand over the top of his head, thumb sweeping along the crown.

He looks up at her. His eye is bright. His cheeks are glowing.

“Whenever you want that again, just tell me. Okay?”

She noses against a sweaty spot on his temple. She doesn’t say anything, but her dreamy, satisfied sigh makes his smile spread wide.

It’s still the middle of the day. There’s plenty left to do for the rest of the day: work and chores and dinner. Fuyuhiko caresses a hand down her forearm and it raises goosebumps on her skin. Five more minutes like this couldn’t hurt.

That’s what she thinks, at least. A feeling in her lower belly rumbles. She untangles herself from Fuyuhiko’s embrace and climbs to her feet as fast as she can manage. He is up in a millisecond, steadying her with a supportive hand against her elbow.

“You okay?” he asks.

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

She sees exactly when he starts to panic. “Why? Wh-What’s the matter? Are you okay? Are you hurt? Do you feel sick or something? I’ll— I’ll call the doc, he’ll—“

“Fuyuhiko,” she cuts in, before he exhausts himself blue, “I have to go to the _bathroom.”_

It takes a moment, but he gets there. _“Oh,”_ he says. “Right. _Right._ Sorry! Go— Go ahead.”

She laughs, a short little exhale. Always the worrier, that man. He really does fret too much for his own good, and she wouldn’t change a thing about him.

She hurries across to hall to get to the toilet.

**Author's Note:**

> These are notes I’ve gathered during my research for this fic. Please forgive any inaccuracies I may have made!
> 
> **Pregnancy in Japan:** Traditionally, pregnancy was seen to be entirely in the expectant mother’s domain, and the father needn’t do any of the work. Of course, much of society has very much evolved past this point, but there are still many traditionalists who believe that the expectant mother should be the one doing anything and everything for their future child.
> 
> **Sex during pregnancy:** In general, Japanese couples usually practice celibacy during pregnancy. While no medical practitioner or pregnancy guide in Japan actually prohibits sex during a healthy pregnancy, it is often advised as an activity that should only be performed “once in a while,” certain positions should be avoided entirely to prevent pressure on the belly, and couples should always wear a condom to avoid risk of infection. Additionally, compared to English language pregnancy websites and books, Japanese pregnancy resources have little to say about sex, and many will often only find such information in certain magazines instead.
> 
> **Weight gain:** Doctors in Japan strictly advise pregnant women to limit how much weight they gain during pregnancy. The thought is that less weight gain will allow for an easier delivery, especially because epidurals are rarely given in Japan for childbirth, and many hospitals won’t offer it at all.
> 
> **Maternity handbook:** Expectant mothers must register their pregnancy at their local city hall, where they will be provided a maternity handbook to track the details of their pregnancy.


End file.
